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Stoner
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Metaphors We Live By
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  (page 175 of 223)
Jul 05, 2022 12:08PM

 
E. E. Cummings: A...
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John Coltrane
“You can play a shoestring if you’re sincere.”
John Coltrane

“He was lying under a tree, licking up the shade,

Hello again, Fox, I said.

And hello to you too, said Fox, looking up and not bounding away.

You're not running away? I said.

Well, I've heard of your conversation about us. News travels even among foxes, as you might know or not know.

What conversation do you mean?

Some lady said to you, "The hunt is good for the fox." And you said, "Which fox?"

Yes, I remember. She was huffed.

So you're okay in my book.

Your book! That was in my book, that's the difference between us.

Yes, I agree. You fuss over life with your clever words, mulling and chewing on its meaning, while we just live it.

Oh!

Could anyone figure it out, to a finality? So why spend so much time trying. You fuss, we live. And he stood, slowly, for he was old now, and ambled away.”
Mary Oliver, A Thousand Mornings: Poems

John Steinbeck
“The grandfather was dresses in a black broadcloth suit and he wore kid congress gaiters and a black tie on a short, hard collar. He carried his black slouch hat in his hand. His white beard was cropped close and his white eyebrows overhung his eyes like mustaches. The blue eyes were sternly merry. About the whole face and figure there was a granite like dignity, so that every motion seemed an impossible thing. Once at rest, it seemed the old man would be stone, would never move again. His steps were slow and certain. Once made, no step would ever be retracted: once headed in a direction, the path would never bend nor the pace increase nor slow.”
John Steinbeck, The Red Pony

Thomas C. Foster
“This is based on no science, pseudo of otherwise, but I firmly believe that the elapsed time between the development of language and creation of the first poem was about five minutes.”
Thomas C. Foster , How to Read Poetry Like a Professor: A Quippy and Sonorous Guide to Verse

E.E. Cummings
“giving to steal and cruel kind,

a heart to fear, to doubt a mind,

to differ a disease of same,

conform the pinnacle of am

though dull were all we taste as bright,

bitter all utterly things sweet,

maggoty minus and dumb death

all we inherit, all bequeath”
E.E. Cummings, Selected Poems

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